She painted her skin
with the brush of a knife
the fibres so sharp
it could end her life
She looked at her masterpiece
And sighed in a whim
The oozing crimson
Trickled down, past her shin
Then she glared at the lines
that the paintbrush had traced
She’s ashamed of her work
She’s ashamed she resisted
It’s a terrible mess
I told her, it won’t last forever
You’ll be free someday
I promised
She wept
Then she painted one last picture
And away
She swept
Really brave writing…keep on it! I think it’s amazing when writers find their voices early in their lives…it took me a long time to have the courage to keep with it. Bravo, love! ❤
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thank you so much! I appreciate any feedback, and this is lovely. There are many more posts to come! 🙂
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Captivating poem
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